


Last Dance of Chances

by Arrison



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Slow Dancing, so to speak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-05-03 23:49:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5311754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arrison/pseuds/Arrison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1945, Peggy sashays to her wardrobe in her red-dress and actual stockings to retrieve the items she needs to look her best for the evening.</p><p>In 2012, Steve puts on his three-piece suit and a forced smile to visit some old friends.</p><p>Both are interrupted, for better and for worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Dance of Chances

Stepping into the coffin wardrobe, Margaret “Peggy” Carter pulls out the third drawer from the cabinet within. She curls her fingers over the right-hand pile of undergarments and puts them neatly on top of the left. Then she hooks her scarlet nails into a small line in the wooden base; plucking up the false bottom and placing it atop of the cabinet. Her gaze, soft, flickers over the revealed collection. A small caliber pistol with its small caliber bullets. Bottle of (mostly finished) schnapps. Photographs, faded. A tattered, folded flag from Camp Lehigh, proclaiming ‘nulli secundus’.

She picks up the last, stretching a smile and unraveling the flag in her hand, revealing several items at its core. Perfectly innocuous items now in her hand; several circular, thin containers. Two small golden tubes. A dark pencil. Drawing the flag high, she pulls it out from underneath her acquisitions and lays it across the top of the cabinet too. Then she clutches her hand, tight, nails digging into her palm. 

Stocking glides against stocking as she rounds into the slightly-larger bathroom. The door remains open, and the boxy radio outside continues to faintly fill up the abode. She places the items down along the sink, and catches herself in the mirror. Minutely adjusts the piece of fabric that holds back her hair, edging her face. Runs her fingers over the curve of her red dress. _The_ dress, as he would call it. A small huff of laughter, almost a scoff, accompanies the thought, her eyes averting from the mirror as she shakes her head. She looks back up, drawing in a breath, eyes flickering.

Then she gets to work.

She dribbles some water from the tap onto a cotton bud she plucks from an on-hand pile, squeezing it between her fingers. Picking up one compact, she draws the bud through the pat and begins to dab it across her face. Light and sparing. Returning to the pat two more times. Then she places the cotton aside and takes to her face with the upper lengths of her fingers. Blending, smoothing.

Somehow gripping the tap in her palm, she turns it on. She washes her fingers and thoroughly draws each digit through a towel. Then another compact; another cotton bud. This time limited in its sprawl; faint pink lines from the apple of the cheek to first the cheek bone, and then an inch below. First the right hand side. Next the left hand side. She fades away the blush in the same order, the cotton merging the colour into the foundation until it appears to have never have been there in the first place, even to her discerning eye.

Two-used cotton buds off to the side now.

The tube of lipstick is next. Plucks it open and twists it forth. A blood, forbidden red. Two strokes across the upper lip and and one drawn across the lower. Lips purse before making a wide smile. Eyes flicking over the teeth before giving a small nod to herself. A tissue joins the discarded buds once she’s blotted her lips against it, and her face returns to neutrality.

+++

 _I’ll never get used to this._ Steve Rogers muses to himself, standing in front of the mirror fixed to the back of his closet door. Shoulders slumped and eyes hard as they wander over the beginnings of his suit; the stretch of the somber, black tie. Pressed pants. He flicks down the collar of his shirt, hands hovering before touching to his slicked-across hair, pushing back imaginary stray strands.

He sighs. Picks up the impossibly long-buttoned vest. One arm through, then another before he shrugs it around himself and brings the piece together along the middle-line of his torso. Silently buttons the piece together, one by one, save the very last. He grasps his hands up into the hem of is and twists, wriggling for a moment before fiddling with the knot of the tie too before it all meets up. Follows it up with the jacket, going through the same process; shrug, button, adjust.

Pushes back a few non-existent hairs again.

Fiddles at the cuff of his shirt, pushing and pulling it between thumb and fingers before it sits just right. Repeats it with the other side. 

“That’s the easy part.” He mutters, closing the door of his wardrobe and moving into the living space of the squashed apartment in two easy strides. A little notebook sits on the table with messily penciled sentences. Beside it, a map with a path neatly drawn out along the streets of New York before concluding in a simple little cross. He picks up the notepad and plucks the top sheet out of its bindings without resistance. Bringing it up to his face, he flicks over them once again, looking down at the map with each step, before folding up the sheet four times and putting it in his pocket.

He picks up his keys and wallet from the corner of table.

His dust-collecting mobile telephone remains in its place.

Then he’s out the door, pulling the handle closed behind him and fiddling with the lock before it clicks into place. Heads down the hallway and pushes forward the mildly rusted door to the stair case. His feet rapidly clack as he shuffles his way down; jacket jiggling with momentum and hair remaining solidly in place (though it doesn’t stop him catching himself in his reflection of the window and smoothing a hand over it when he reaches the bottom of the stairs). Through the foyer and out the door.

New York never fails to hit him across the face with her presence. The calamity of sounds and movement and indistinguishable smells. He rubs his hands against the front of his pants as he’s bombarded with the revving and honking and jostling of cars and machinery. Furrows his brow and grimaces, open-mouthed. Then he lurches forward a step, arm extended high and a yellow taxi drawing out in front of him.

He clambers into the back seat and lets out a large sigh. Then rustles in his pocket and draws out the piece of paper, offering it out to the driver.

“I’ve written the address at the top, and uh, there’s instructions. If you need them.” He explains, catching the amused snort from the man. “Do you mind if I catch a little shut-eye?” He asks, earnestly looking in the rear-view mirror.

“Whatever, buddy.” The driver dismisses, pulling out into the streets. Steve settles back into the corner of the seat, huffing a breath and humming to himself as he closes his eyes.

+++

A draw across her upper eyelids, a smokiness dabbed just above that, and a powder across the face. Another tissue is drawn across the skin, loose and light as it feathers against her. Then she places it with the others.

She arches her head one way, watching her reflection out of the corner of her eye. Then the other way and another silent appraisal. She nods, turning back. Raises her hands and unties the strip of fabric at the line of her hair, framing her face. Tresses fall forward; a curl coming across her forehead, framing her eye and kissing her cheekbone. She coerces the other side a touch with a nail run behind the ear, bringing it forward. She repeats the examination. A look to one side. A look to the other. A content nod.

She promptly bins the used cotton and coloured tissues. Returns the makeups to their cloistered state; folding into the flag, into the false bottom of the draw, under the undergarments in the cabinet of her wardrobe. She plucks her heels from the floor in one fluid motion, and slips her feet into them. Picks up her clutch. Takes a stride to the full length mirror in the living room/bedroom/dining space and twists at the hips, looking over herself. Face neutral, unchanging. Brushes the back of her hands down her dress.

A rap of knuckles at the door. Quick and loud. Boisterous.

She startles in that Peggy Carter way that means she doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move, but there’s a slight widening of her eyes and an almost imperceptibly sharp inhalation of breath. But she turns on foot and pads across to the door; drawing back the chain and stepping back as she opens it.

A low whistle greets her.

“Mr Stark.” She blandly acknowledges the man standing at her doorway, face flat and lips thin, unimpressed. “What are you doing here?”

“Geez Pegs, can’t a guy drop by to say hi?” He questioningly teases in that infamously Howard Stark way, moustache twitching up with the pull of his smile. “You’re a regular dreamboat in that get-up.” He notes, overtly looking her over.

“Just a regular one?” She dryly retorts, stepping forward a touch and remaining within the small open space she’s provided to be able to talk to the man. Taking a look at Stark’s well-tailored suit and buffed shoes, she gives a tight little smile. “You look very nice too, Mr Stark. But if you’ll excuse me, I-”

“Have plans, right?” He interjects, cocking his head a slight. “I know.” Peggy’s eyes narrow.

“How?”

His face lights up in a grin.

“I’m Howard Stark” He declares, an upward and outward flourish of his hands in his usual showmanship.

… Which is met with a stare.

He clears his throat.

“That’s not the point.” He quickly adds, shoving his hands into the the pockets of his grey suit pants, rocking back on his feet “Point is; my car’s outside and we’re going the same way. How’s ‘bout it?”

She sighs, managing a more polite smile; reaching her eyes to a degree.

“That’s very kind of you Howard, but completely unnecessary. I can catch a cab.” She explains matter-of-factly.

“C’mon Pegs.” He implores warmly, still smiling wide. “Costs less than a cab, and better company too.” He all but purrs the last word and holds out his arm to her.

She drums her nails against the door. Once, then twice.

Looks at his arm, then face. Then rolls her eyes and sighs. 

“Alright, alright. Though I don’t know about that last part…” She admits, stepping through the door and pulling it to a close before taking his arm.

+++

He’s been standing at the edge of the grave for about an hour.

So his internal clock tells him.

Hands are simply tucked into his pockets, back drawn and eyes muted, pointing at the tombstone but long-since having glazed over. He’d read over the engraving too many times. Tracing up its rough hew. Discerning the words until they’d lost any and all inherent meaning. He knew that they all had their time, How could they not? They had enlisted into the second World War, and then consequently skirted around the edges of death on a frequent basis as they did their best to take down Hydra.

As the cold of the Arctic Sea had embraced him, he couldn’t help the hollow smile that pulled at his lips. He wouldn’t be the first to go, though he begged God that he had been instead, but he would no longer be the last.

“Rest in Peace, old friend.” He offers, voice low and solemn. A respectful bow of his head and a moment of silence.

“Rest in Peace.” A voice echoes from a step behind him. He angles his torso slightly and looks over his shoulder, face remaining unchanged.

“Agent Romanoff.” He gives a curt nod of his head and she takes a step forward to come flush to his side; boots crunching the gravel underneath.

“Captain Rogers.” She drawls, arms furled over her jacketed chest and eyes still intently looking at the grave. Hip cocking out to the side. “You spent the last week attending vigils for the victims of the attack on Manhattan. Then you spend your first day off at a cemetery.” He doesn’t know her that well, but the perpetual hint of amusement that seems to typify her voice is absent from her observation.

“I should’ve visited sooner.” Steve notes with a hardness in his tone, looking up from the tombstone and further away, eyes skimming atop the crumbling teeth of tombstones that checker the ground. He clenches his jaw a little. Silently watching a dark swell of people congregated around a fresh grave.

“But you’re doing it now.” She points out, looking across to him and following his gaze to the funeral off in the distance. Seconds pass as the sentence brushes away and the two simply watch the event unfold. Then the congregation disperse, slowly; drips and drabs of people until one lone figure leaves. That is when he looks down and across at her.

“Why are you here, Agent Romanoff?” He queries, pulling his hands from his pockets. “Is Fury bringing me in?”

“No.” She replies lightly, shrugging a shoulder and looking at the ground, before looking up to him with a smirk. “I just thought you could use the company. First proper day off in the big wide world, after all.”

The amused drawl is back, and Steve cannot help the slightly lopsided smile that tugs on his lips as they turn away from the grave and head down the path.

“Thanks, but I’m fine. Appreciate the thought though.” He dismisses with warmth.

“Steve, I’m not checking up on you.” She admonishes with a light laugh, playfulness dancing in her eyes as she looks up at him, before definitively stating. “Let’s go grab some dinner.”

He can’t help the pull of his facial muscles in surprise, before they ease and he chuckles.

“Sure, why not.”

+++

“Peggy?”

She draws a breath and turns her gaze from its unfocus on the leather seat to Howard standing at her car door; holding it open and offering out his hand. Her own hands curl around the her clutch, tightening and gripping for a second before she raises up a hand and takes the offered one. Steps out and onto the pavement as Howard leans into the vehicle, speaking to the driver.

People bustle past, some slowing to look over the car and her and Howard Stark when he appears at her side. But she doesn’t pay them any mind. She simply scans the street, arches up on her feet, brow furrowing. She notes the line along the building, following it from the very end of its stretch to where it meets the door. She shifts in her heels, looking up to the awning above the door, The clutch is still held in front of her, over her stomach; hands in front of it and arms drawn over the front of her body.

“C’mon.” Stark lightly bumps his shoulder against her, getting her attention. He jerks his head over toward the door. “I’ll use some of that Stark star-power and get us inside pronto.” He smiles, already walking away from her and starting toward the door.

“Ah, I really don’t think that’s necessary Howard, but thank you.” Heels click along the path as she catches up to him, hair bobbing as she does. She looks along the line of people again. This time from the front to the back, not paying any mind to the subtly steering hand of Howard on her elbow as he round her in the direction of the door.

“You said that about the car.” He points out, all but parting the people with his presence; maintaining a photographic smile as he speaks. “Anyway, anyone worth seeing will be inside by now.” He observes quietly, eyes flicking over her and intently watching. She draws back her gaze from the line of people, looking ahead, then to him.

“Right.” She quietly agrees with a nod, looking back ahead and following him along. They arrive at the door; a gold chain along in front of it. It’s instantly drawn aside by a suited gentleman who lavishes welcomes and well-wishes on ‘Mr Stark and his companion’, in contrast to a gentleman who loudly bemoans Stark’s line-cutting. 

They step into the foyer. Lavish. Marble floors, plush chairs with oak frames. A chandelier. Bright and gold and mirrored.

Peggy only takes two steps, then stops slightly off to the side as Howard makes to continue on, hand on the door and all but through to the next room as he realises she isn’t following him. Light music, brass underscored with a piano, bleeds in from the next room.

“You go on ahead, Howard.” She encourages, smiling with a little warmth once he looks back to her. “I’ll wait here.”

Howard’s mouth pulls tight and his brow wilts a touch. His lips part a slight, but then he nods and steps through into the next room. 

Peggy’s takes a slow step, and then another, heels echoing in the ornate room before she turns and quietly settles herself back tightly into a chair with a steadying breath and a quiver of her lip.

+++

“Steve?”

There’s a wave of a hand in front of his eyes and his head flicks and focuses on Natasha, who’s smiling a little, shoulders bobbing with internal laughter. At some point between their meal arriving and him drifting off into his own thoughts, she’s wolfed down her burger; the plate off to the side the only proof of such an event.

“Welcome back, Cap’” She drawls out long, pressing her lips to her beer and taking a swig. He chuckles and shakes his head, looking down at his half-eaten burger on the table through lowered lashes.

“Glad to be here.” He mutters, rounding his hands about the burger and leaning down to meet it; taking a large bite from it.

“Is that how you said it to the President?” She leans back in her chair, taking another swig but eyes always remaining fixed on him. He huffs amusement through a mouthful of burger, see-sawing his head back and forth as he chews on the burger; poised to answer. He swallows down the food.

“More confused and much less enthusiastic.” He admits, angling the burger into one hand while he grasps a napkin in between his fingers, wiping it across his mouth. Then he lets the napkin fall down beside the plate, drifting ungracefully.

“That’s fair.” Natasha concurs, giving a one-shouldered shrug. She sits her beer sits on the table; fingers noiselessly padding against the glass.

“Mm.” Is all that he manages in way of response, attempting to navigate his burger once again. It goes on for a while, his munching and her idling before she looks up from the bottle, eyes soft and fixed on him.

“Steve…” The tone instantly grabs his attention. No play. No thinly-veiled amusement. It’s wounded. Concerned. His gaze meets her’s in an instant and he swallows down a mouthful. Her eyes flicker back and forth over his eyes, and there’s a downward turn in the corner of her lips. There’s minute tension on her lower lip that betrays her biting down of it internally and Steve frowns.

“... You’re concerned.” He concludes aloud, placing his burger down on the plate and pressing back against the booth; the cheap, plastic covering creaking underneath. She drums her fingers against the bottle again, this time nail clinking against it. She watches the movement, then looks back up to him.

“I know it’s not the same. That it can never be the same.” She states definitively, brokering no argument with the matter. Then she smiles, awkward and small. Sincere. “But this team, these… Avengers…” Her lips quirk and she gives a sway of her head at the term, looking down then back to him. “We’ll be here for you. Are here for you.”

He’s silent. 

Eyes wide, and silent.

Then he eases into a practiced smile.

“Thanks.” He says, giving a little nod. Natasha narrows her eyes slightly.

“You don’t believe me, do you.” Steve doesn’t have a second to stammer out an excuse or a dismissal, as she’s already on her feet and tugging him away from the booth by his hand.

“Come on.”

+++

“Excuse me?” 

The young boy’s head instantly snaps back from his beeline across the foyer to meet the question.

“Yes ma’am?”

“I don’t suppose you have the time, do you?” Peggy asks quietly.

“Uh,” He drawls, flicking up his hand to look over the watch on his wrist. “It’s about twenty-past eight, ma’am.”

“Ah.” She tones flatly, giving a polite nod of her head. “I see. Thank you.”

He pauses for a moment, before turning back on his way and scampering through the door.

She looks back down at the marble floor. Head bowed forward and eyes slowly closing. Blinking in a measured pace, matching the beat of her heart. Lips tugged to the side. Her throat bobs as she swallows back.

She sits. Not waiting. Just sitting. Minutes drawing out.

There’s a tapping of shoes across the floor, and someone settles in beside her.

“I checked every room and asked every member of staff.” It’s Howard again, whose hand lightly comes to her forearm and squeezes. “He’s…” It stretches out, but the damp in his voice says it all until he does. “He’s not here.”

“I know.” She looks at his hand before leaning back in the chair, her eyes meeting his. Similarly soft and broken gazes. “Thank you for checking.” A small strain on her words. She pats her hand on his, then drawing it back to her clutch.

“Not a problem, Pegs.” He bends forward, interlacing his fingers; tapping them to the back of his hands. “Truth be told, I… I rather hoped myself that…” The fingers are now tight against his skin; the grasp causing the embrace of his hands to shake.

There’s a sharp, nasal exhale, and he slaps his hands against his knees.

“Anyway.” He manages weakly, rolling back his shoulders and pushing back against the chair.

They sit in silence, save for a moment when a waiter walks through one of the doors; chatter and laughter following him through, with trumpets and squeals of delight welcoming him as he moves through into the next.

Then they settle back into the quiet.

God knows how many seconds, minutes passing.

Peggy gives a shaky breath.

“It’s not as though I expected him to be here.” She blurts out in a mixture of sob and self-deprecating laughter, sharply drawing in breath as she looked up. Eyes stinging red; tears lining her lashes. “But I just, I just thought that… That if anyone could do it.” The tears roll down her face, and Howard wraps an arm around her shoulder and draws her into him, she cannot help but cry, chest heaving.

“It would have been him.” Howard agrees, eyes shimmering and tears falling and hand rubbing reassuringly along her shoulder.

+++

Natasha eventually relents her hand from his, but Steve was practically pushing into people to try and keep up to the effortlessly way she ducks and weaves through the crowd.

“H-Hey.” He stammers as he finally catches a lull in the crowds and gets to her side, only to find that she is stopped dead; looking at a break in the line of buildings made by a park pocketed amongst them. A quartet of buskers stand just outside the corner of the adjacent building; a singer, pianist, trombonist, and saxophonist. A rope, yellow and black twisted together, has been stretched out between the two buildings flanking the park, but Natasha simply flicks her eyes up to Steve, then marches forward, stepping over the rope with ease.

“Natasha.” He hisses in rebuke, following quickly behind her, hesitating at the rope for a second. “What are you doing?” He asks firmly. “What are we doing here.” The questions have been fired at her back, but as she stops walking once she is at the centre of the park, turning on heel to face him.

“Making up for lost time.” She smugly replies with a trademark cock of the hip and smirk of the lips. 

“Lost time?” He questions; the background noise of the city drowned out between the manmade waterfall at the back of the park and the jazzy quartet at the front.

“Do you know what used to be here, Steve?” He frowns further, but looks up at the buildings on other side. Then he scratches at the back of his head before flopping both arms in a shrug.

“No idea.” He admits with a small sigh and a clench of his jaw, looking at her.

“One of New York’s premiere nightclubs.” She says, raising a hand from her crossed arms and pointing skyward. “Specifically; the Stork Club.” She leans forward as she says it, then folds her arms again.

There’s a pause. Then a widening of Steve’s eyes as a memory falls into place.

“The Stork Club.” He repeats quietly, looking down at the paved ground, swallowing. 

“Yup.” She affirms, an unseen smile in her voice. Steve stammers

“But that means-”

“You’re late.”

The voice croaks from behind him and he turns in an instant, resisting the urge to smooth a hand nervously through his hair so as not to miss a moment of her.

“Peggy.”

His voice is in awe and tight and overwhelmed, his face melting into a smile that crinkles the skin at the corners of his eyes; light dancing on them. Peggy Carter is standing right in front of him, in _the_ red dress, she and it aged, but no less beautiful than the day he first met her.

And behind her, in the distance, in various stages of grinning, thumbs up, and laughter, are the other Avengers.

There’s a clap on his shoulder as Natasha walks by him. He cannot find the words but the nod she gives him allows him to simply nod in appreciation in return. She corrals the others away from the scene in the periphery.

And that leaves Peggy and Steve. Standing there. Where the Stork Club once stood. Light jazz swelling in the background.

There’s so much he wants to say, wants to know. But there’s only one thing that makes sense with which to start.

“... I still don’t know how to dance.” Steve admits with a bashful smile, stepping forward and raising his hands to where he thinks they should be. She laughs, papery, but no less mirthful, and slowly maneuvers his hands into position, smiling wide. Peggy slowly begins to move them.

“I’ll show you how.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> Comments are more than welcome, whether they are just general thoughts/feelings on the piece, or more elaborate, constructive criticism.
> 
> This was largely experimental in part, and begun as a short writing of Peggy applying makeup, and then kind of spiraled out of control from there. I think her particular story is stronger than Steve's, as his was interlaced after her part was written to make this a wee bit less angsty.
> 
> The title of this comes from the book _Fool's Fate_ by Robin Hobb.


End file.
